


You Win Or You Die

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, I love him regardless, Introspection, My First Work in This Fandom, Petyr was a jerk, Post-Episode: s07e07 The Dragon and the Wolf, Regret, Sansa-centric, Season/Series 07, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, post season 7 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 11:12:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12034698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: Sansa thinks about Petyr.





	You Win Or You Die

**Author's Note:**

> I have finally joined the My Favourite Character Died Club. I needed to deal with my feelings. Therefore, this happened.

Sansa Stark has not felt this conflicted about her emotions in a long, long time. Maybe not since Joffrey turned out to be not at all the prince she was promised in the songs and stories Old Nan would tell her. Definitely not since the Eyrie, and a castle made of snow.

Now the man who stole a kiss from her that day lies dead in front of her. Dead by her sister’s hand, by her own judgement.

And Sansa is not entirely sure how she feels about that.

When Arya came to her with her suspicions – ones that Sansa had been harbouring for a long time already – and when Bran confirmed them, the siblings quickly came to the conclusion that there was only one possible outcome: Petyr Baelish had to die. Arya had thrown herself into planning the whole thing with a sort of manic glee that almost scared Sansa, but mostly she enjoyed her sister’s flair for the dramatic. It reminded her of the child Arya had been, of simpler days.

After it was over, her lords wanted to put his head on a spike and burn the body, but Sansa wouldn’t hear of it. “He was a traitor but he was still a lord.” She had turned to Maester Wolkan. “Prepare his body and send a raven to the Silent Sisters. I want his bones sent to the Fingers at the earliest opportunity.”

Maester Wolkan had bowed in acknowledgement. “Yes, my lady.”

Lord Royce spoke up then, a genial smile on his face. “Lady Stark, I must insist...”

“And so must I, my lord.” The expression on his face had turned sour, curdling like milk gone bad. “This is not about revenge. It is about justice. And now justice has been served.” She had patted his hand as she walked past him. “Maester, a word.”

The body had been brought to the Maester’s study, a room where she still expects to find Maester Luwin bent over his scrolls or feeding the ravens, and she always startles a bit when she walks in and finds the much taller Wolkan instead.

Theon’s fault, like so much else. Theon, who saved her.

She sits in the window, looking out at the snow that started falling again a while ago, fat flakes that dampen everything. She herself feels numb, colder than usual. It is a peculiar feeling.

Finally, she looks up at the body, taking a deep breath before getting to her feet. His eyes are open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, already turning milky and gelatinous. The front of his clothes and his sleeve have turned black, soaked in his blood, and the silver hair at his temple is just as dark as the rest now. There is dried blood on his cheek. He fell forward, she remembers, clutching at the wound in his throat as his heart struggled to keep beating.

Her judgement was justified. She knows this. He had so much blood on his hands, even if the only person he actually killed – that she knows of, at least – is her aunt. Her entire family is dead on account of his plans, his desire for power. He played the game of thrones and others died and suffered for it. He made her a Bolton, and she has suffered _so much_ because of his actions.

He deserves so much worse than this quick death Arya gave him.

And still… When she told Arya that she didn’t want it, that she was honour bound to do it… That had been the truth. She didn’t want him dead. Didn’t want to be the one sentencing him. She is still absurdly grateful to him for bringing the knights of the Vale, for saving Jon. But as the Lady of Winterfell, as the de facto head of her household in Jon’s absence – she had to.

She can still see the desperation on his face, in his eyes. He had been so good at sweet-talking his way out of trouble, until Bran had confronted him with the truth of what he had done. He thought he could still fool her, she thinks, until she threw his own words back into his face.

In that moment, she had been furious. With him. With her parents, for not seeing him for what he was. With herself.

He had fallen to his knees in front of her, and she knows how much that must have hurt his pride. He was such a proud man, she thinks, so confident. And then he fell on his knees in front of her, a mere girl half his age, and begged for his life.

He spoke the truth then. She knows he did, knows it in her heart.

He loved her, in his own twisted way. His last word was her name, spoken with such desperation and longing and fear, it tore her insides to shreds.

Sansa stares down at him, and all of a sudden her vision is swimming with tears, and she cries, cries until she has no tears left, until she is empty and made of stone and ice. She wipes at her cheeks angrily, looks down at him again. Her tears fell on him, on the blood on his cheek, and it is now running down into his hair as though he were crying bloody tears. What a fitting image.

“You should have stayed in the Fingers with your rocks and your sheep, my lord. We would all have been better off for it.” She swallows heavily. “You and me both.”

She reaches down, touches the tips of her fingers to his eyelids. His skin is already cold, waxy against her own, and for half a heartbeat she wants it all undone. Wants him alive, wants to accept all the things he offered her that day under the weirwood.

But it’s too late for any of that.

Petyr Baelish is dead.

She closes his eyes, and her hand lingers against his cheek for a moment. He looks almost peaceful, beneath the blood and if she ignores the gaping wound in his throat. As though he’s merely asleep.

The door falls closed behind her as she leaves, the sound echoing down the hall.

His mockingbird pin bites into her palm as she walks away.


End file.
